Alone in the Night
by adlyb
Summary: You're broken, Claire." "Your point?" "I could fix you." An examination of what would have happened had HRG never returned to the Bennett family at the end of Season 2. Dark, AU. As always, Sylaire.


**Alone in the Night**

By adlyb

Disclaimer: I own nothing, except these words.

When her father dies, something inside of her snaps.

A scream rips through her lungs when she hears the gunshot. Horror seeps through her veins, thick and slow, when she sees her father stagger, hit the ground. Her legs give out.

West swoops down, locks his arms around her, carries her away from her dying father. She tries to break free, knows that if she can somehow manage to break his hold on her, the drop down won't kill her. A broken leg might slow her down, but she knows she'll be about to make it to him in time.

She struggles, but to no avail. As the last flicker of life leaves her father's eyes, she realizes that even if she had somehow escaped her one-time love, he would have been on her like a hawk on a field mouse. There would be no reunion with her father. She would never see him again.

Tears stream down her face. But through the wet curtain she makes out a face. A raven haired-man with umber-skin and a cool gleam in his eyes. When their eyes meet, her vision bleeds red.

West drops her off at her house. The house that is no longer a home.

Numbly, she turns, walks the death march through her front door, stumbles upon her mother and brother, waiting. Waiting for news, waiting for an outcome, waiting for an end. Waiting for a man who will never come home. They know from the expression on her face, from the fact that she is completely alone. Her mother crumples on the floor like a wet rag. She carefully walks around her.

She spends the night in West's arms. They never speak. But there is a riff between them now. Deep down, she blames him. Not like she blames the other man, not like she blames Mohinder Suresh, but still. She blames him.

…

When her father's ashes are delivered, something inside of her dies. Whatever survived of the girl who collected teddy bears and decorated Homecoming banners is dead. That girl shrivels up and dies and when the wilted corpse is swept out, there is nothing left but a hard exterior. Years later, when she remembers that day, she thinks it was her humanity to which she said goodbye.

….

The sun is setting over the white, rocky beaches of California, painting the water pink and lavender and streaking the rocks and white caps silver when they scatter his ashes. It's beautiful.

She reaches deep into the urn, grasps as much as her smooth palm can hold. But when she takes it out, the wind steals her father from her. Thin, wispy ribbons of ash arch over her, out into the ocean.

They stand there a long time, her mother, brother and her. They take turns passing the urn around, until there is nothing left. The sun is just a faint speck of fire on the Western horizon when they turn to leave.

That's when she notices the car, an inconspicuous model with a blond girl sipping a big-gulp in the driver's seat. The girl reacts instantly to her gaze. Panics. As if she does not want to be seen. Too late.

It's an immediate confrontation.

Elle's cornered, with a broken arm and minimal fire power. So she works out some of her anger by breaking the other girl's car window. Lets her watch as her flesh knits itself back together. Enjoys the fear she sees shimmer beneath the surface of her opponent's eyes.

It's enough. She lets her go. Takes her family (what's left of it) and goes home.

…..

Her mother wants to leave, as soon as possible. She tells them to finish packing, says that she wants them out the door by sunrise. What gets left behind gets left behind. They'll start fresh one last time.

_We'll have a clean slate. Won't that be nice, Lyle?_

Her mother says it like its wonderful, but Claire hears the catch in her mother's voice anyway.

Nothing in her room is important to her. Not anymore. So, instead, she goes around the house, gathering her father's Company files and ferreting out all of his concealed weapons. She is startled the first time she opens a drawer and pulls out one of his handguns. But only for a moment. The cool weight feels good in her hands. She wraps her long fingers around the grip and is pleasantly surprised by how natural it feels. The gun gives her ideas.

Carefully, she places the gun on the table next to her. Begins sifting through her father's files. Moves them into the backseat of the car. She plans to become more familiar with them when they leave.

Claire doesn't tell her mother about the weapons. She's sure her mother must be aware that her father had them around, but either she doesn't remember them or she doesn't want to think about them. So Claire takes the liberty, and keeps them for herself.

….

It's dark when they pull out of the driveway, and the stars are shining brighter than Claire's ever seen them. She wonders if it's a good omen. A sign of success.

Claire has plans. Big plans.

She hugs the file box closer, molding it against the curve of her hip, securing it to her side.

…..

Her mother relocates them in Ohio. It's colder here than anywhere else they've ever lived, and, as far as Claire can tell, it may as well be the back end of the world.

The house is small and quaint, snug and warm, but hardly furnished. The first month, she sleeps on a blow-up mattress on the floor.

They change their names completely, this 're the Greene family, now. Her mother gets a low-profile job. Claire goes to the biggest possible school in the area, in a further attempt to draw as little attention as possible. For awhile, everything is quiet. At night, she can hear the crickets in the fields beyond their house.

But while her mother and her brother concentrate, expend all of their energy on trying to live this new sham, perpetuate this new cloak and dagger attempt to keep her safe, Claire spends her time obsessing over her last life. The life where she was Claire Butler (instead of Sarah Greene) and she still had a father to lose. A life to live. Claire Bennett scoffed at the minor inconveniences of being Claire Butler, but Sarah Greene yearns to return to Costa Verde, would sell her soul for the opportunity.

Each night she kisses her mother goodnight, turns off her lights, and waits. Waits until she hears her brother's stereo turn off, until she can hear the soft pad of her mother's footsteps leading into her room, until even Mr. Muggles seems to be asleep. Then she flips back the covers, and pulls The Box out from under her bed. She stays up all night, studying and taking notes on each file. Laughs mirthlessly when she notices that _they _tried to bag and tag Nathan, but failed. She laughs, but is not surprised.

At first, she worries that all the sleepless nights will lay a toll on her. But soon she finds that that really won't be a problem. Her body won't even notice if she neglects to sleep. So she stops sleeping altogether.

Occasionally, though, the urge overtakes her, and she gives in to the desire to sleep. Instead of clinging to a teddy-bear, she hugs the box to her slumbering chest instead. She never dreams.

The cogs are working in her head, spinning faster and faster, all working in perfect synchrony. Like a watch.

…

They have only been living in Ohio a few days when she makes the decision to go after Mohinder.

While going through her father's files, she finds Mohinder's address, carefully transcribed in her father's precise scrawl. So she loads her father's silver gone and catches a bus to New York City.

The ride seems long and tedious, and the slow passage of time makes Claire feel anxious. She does her best to squelch the feelings and assure herself that she is strong, that she won't have any trouble taking Mohinder's life, but to no avail. Even in her mind she is unable to be at ease concerning her decision.

New York is cold. Bitterly cold. The air is damp, and when she breathes, her breath forms clouds right in front of her face. The sensation makes her feel giddy.

In so many ways, the city disarms her. She has not been here since Kirby Plaza. Part of her wishes she hadn't ever come back. But most of her is glad she had come, rejoices that her revenge will soon be complete.

Taking the remainder of her birthday money from her wallet, she manages to hail a cab with limited difficulty. Manages to slip him an address a few blocks away from Mohinder's loft. Is thankful that she at least has the sense not to ask the cabbie to bring her directly there. After all, it would look bad if someone suddenly turned up dead exactly where she had asked him to bring her.

The three block walk to his loft makes her legs shake. When the sound of the wind whistling through the ally-ways makes her jump, she scolds herself for being overly jumpy.

And then she sees him.

He's dressed in a dark button-down, dark pants, dark shoes. Everything about him is dark, and it disarms her.

He doesn't notice her, though.

She watches transfixed as he rolls up his sleeve, stabs himself with a needle and pumps what looks like crimson syrup into his arm. It's only a moment later, after he's already finished injecting himself, that she understands what he is doing. That she understands it's _blood _he's infusing himself with. After that, it only takes her a moment to make the connection, to understand that it is _her_ blood. The moment costs her dearly.

_Oh._

It tumbles from her mouth like water. Cool and liquid and impossible to take back.

She wishes she could.

His eyes lock onto her, a predator assessing its prey.

Claire looks straight into his face, and for the second time in six months she feel a bolt of terror rip through her as those dark eyes penetrate her.

The corners of his mouth twitch, and before long he is smirking.

_Look what we have here. What a fortunate coincidence._

His voice is draped in the fabrics of death. His garb is murder.

She is caught somewhere between the desire to scream and the desire to give in. To give up. To have come all this way, only to run into Sylar right at the finish line… It's almost too much.

Her lips are already forming a response, the nature of which she is unsure, when something grabs his attention. He cocks his head to the side as if he is listening… Places a silencing finger over his lips…

At that moment, she hears a loud cacophony of noise coming from the direction of her target's apartment.

A few blocks away, she can see Mohinder Suresh burst out his back door, onto the fire escape.

She is resolute. Nothing will stop her from avenging her father.

A bolt of lightening comes hurtling towards them. She is not fast enough to move; the electricity stings a little, even as the singed flesh peels away to reveal soft, renewed skin and golden hair.

Claire she glances over at Sylar. She expects him to be watching her regenerate, to be salaciously coveting her power.

He is no longer paying attention to her. Instead, he is muttering under his breath, incoherently.

_Elle._

They spit the name out simultaneously.

He looks at her curiously, and she can tell he is about to say something to her when another pulse of lightening steals his attention away. She takes advantage of the moment and decides to pursue Suresh.

Her feet pound down the sidewalk as she races towards the inevitable end, towards Suresh. She is almost there, her footsteps reverberating through the quiet streets, her hand unsheathing her silvery treasure, her fingers itching towards the trigger, taking aim- she is so close she can see the sweat rolling off of his brow, smell the sickly sweet odors of fear and exhaustion rolling off of him- when she is yanked back by invisible arms.

Wildly, she angles her gun towards Suresh, trying vainly to hit him, wound him, even just graze him. The bullet ricochets off of a wall and ends up buried in some poor pigeon.

Invisible arms give way to real arms. Sylar's hand is a firm pressure on the back of her neck, holding her up like a kitten by the scruff of her neck. It makes her wish she was still being held by the non-tangible ones.

_My, my. Kitten's grown claws._

His metaphor almost makes her laugh. Almost.

Instead she just gives him an angry glare.

The expression makes him laugh.

_If you're going to kill me, just get it over with._

_Tempting offer. But I think I may have to give you a rain-check on that one._

His response confuses her more than anything else.

_What does that mean?_

_Well, before I take that _delicious _power of yours, I was hoping to have a little heart to heart._

She grimaces.

_I prefer my plan._

His smile makes her stomach churn. In the middle of that alley, with only him, she wishes she was anywhere else. Anywhere else in the entire fucking world. She feels herself begin to fade.

_I _will _find you._

The promise fills her with dread.

She wakes up screaming, covered in cold sweat. Looks around Sarah Greene's room, sees that The Box has fallen to the floor, its contents scattered by what must have been violent tossing and turning. Relief sweeps through her as she takes stock of the total normality of her room.

_I _will _find you._

His words echo through her mind, and, somehow, she knows he is right.

…..

Ultimately, the dream serves only to encourage her wild plans of revenge.

What she _wants _to do is to destroy the people who destroyed her life, to crush them like roaches under the heel of her boot and grind the dust from their skulls into the ground.

But that is different from what she _has _to do.

What she _has _to do is continue her life, or, rather, Sarah Greene's life. What she_has _to do is please her mother and keep her younger brother in line. Do her homework and brush her teeth and pretend to go to bed until it is safe to sort through her beloved Box.

Throughout all of this time, she makes sure to keep a low profile. Is careful never to draw any unnecessary attention to herself, especially in regards to _him_. Decides to forgo sleep altogether, so as to avoid anymore undesirable nightmares. Mentally, this exhausts her. Physically, she doesn't notice.

Eventually, though, it is time for the charade to end. She graduates high school, tells her mother she is going to college, and after that she never looks back.

…

Instead of the college in Alaska she conned her mother into believing she was attending, she makes a pilgrimage to a shooting range in Mexico. Takes her father's heavy handgun, and uses her tuition money to pay for private instruction.

They ask no questions when she palms the thick wad of bills into their greedy hands. They are only too happy to be of some assistance to her.

And they teach her well. So, when someone presses just a little too snugly against the curvy contours of her back, she pays it no heed. She just snickers and plays along, lets him grind himself into her. The only thing she is concerned about is his ability to teach her to shoot straight.

_You really have a killer instinct._

She smiles flirtatiously, confidently.

_Yeah, you could say that._

She blows the head off of the next target.

…

Like in Ohio, the nights in Mexico are almost quiet, yet distinctly different. Instead of crickets, she hears cayotes. Secretly, she feels a resonance with the nocturnal predators.

Although she never sleeps anymore, she still likes to close her eyes. She calls this her rest. She is very careful never to drift off, lest she dream of _him._ Even now, as she shifts restlessly against her lumpy mattress on the floor, he haunts her, his face painted vividly against he landscape of her eyelids.

….

A few weeks spent in Mexico, carefully training her eye and arm, convince her to start small. Start with the lackeys. So, instead of confronting Bob or Mohinder, she begins with the ones like her. The ones who betrayed their own kind by selling their souls and their gifts to the Company.

The first time she kills a man it is hard. So hard. She feels like she is made of glass afterwards, with every piece likely to break, to fracture and splinter into a million tiny pieces. But she cleans up afterwards, soaks the blood out of her shirt, and the next day she tries again. She is always careful to make the incident seem natural to the casual discoverer, an accident almost _expected_ to befall a field agent every now and then. She is very good at covering things up.

So she takes her time, makes sure to space out the killings.

….

In the mean time she supplements her living with real hit jobs. She is earning a reputation as the best in the lucrative field of organized crime.

Every week, she calls her mother and talks to her for exactly half an hour. Lies and tells her she got her package and that she loved the sweater- assures her mother that her life is complete, that she's blissfully, euphorically happy. Does everything in her power to make her mother comfortable. When she sends home care packages, she is always sure to include some money for her mother and for Lyle. She tells them she stumbled upon a job in the oil business.

…..

It's on a flight from L.A. to Hong Kong that she accidentally nods off. She hasn't slept in four years, but, somehow, she manages to this time.

_I never thought you'd show up._

The voice sends shivers down her spine. But she's older now, better able to handle men and their unfriendly commentary.

She laughs, and the sound is silvery.

_I never planned to come back._

_Sleeping is good for the mind, you know._

_I disagree._

He just smiles that creepy smile of his and shoves his hands in his pockets.

_You're broken, Claire._

_Your point?_

_I could fix you._

A rough spot of air causes her beverage to spill into her lap, jarring her awake.

….

What disturbs her is when people on her personal hit list start going missing. Or, worse, when she finds their bodies.

It isn't worse because the corpses make her queasy; it's worse because they don't. It's worse because of the tell-tale signs of the identity of the murderer. It's worse because she can tell they were left for _her_, like clues in a scavenger hunt. Except she knows he's hunting her.

The hunt becomes a competition between the two of them. Whoever kills the most special people fastest wins. She's playing to keep certain powers away from him; he's playing to spite her. The only difference in the rules is that she only targets specials who turned to the Company. He targets anyone.

…

At some point, Claire arrives at the decision that it would be therapeutic for her to kill someone more meaningful than a turncoat. She thinks it might even mean salvation for her crimson soul. So she unlocks her file cabinet where the contents of her beloved Box are stored and she picks her target. The decision is too easy.

….

Killing Bob is less satisfying than she thought it would be. After so many years of so much carnage, his screams don't even register on her internal seismograph. The only pleasing part is when she presses her heel thickly against his neck, feels the pop beneath her foot. She leaves the body for Elle.

…

Her father's files indicate that there was one other documented individual with her ability… an Adam Monroe… Sometimes, in an effort to distract herself, she fantasizes about what he was like, what it would feel like to have someone _just like her_, someone who _understood_, by her side, always… But she inevitably reminds herself that there is no point to such daydreams; he had been missing for years.

….

At age twenty-five, Claire begins to suspect that she is immortal. The reflection in the mirror is still that of a seventeen year old girl. Sure, the hair is shorter, blonder, the make-up more pronounced… But the face is still youthful, somehow. The hard edge her life has given her just makes her look like a disillusioned teenager. She snickers, because she'll probably be just that for the rest of time.

For brief moments, she wonders if she should be happy with her situation. Then she closes her eyes, and hears his laughing voice inside her head, and she knows that there is no way for her to withstand an eternity of solitude, with his ghostly specter as her only companion.

The idea of an eternity ahead of her bothers her more than she thinks it should. Most people would be thrilled to be forever young. She just wants an out.

It's this realization that finally makes her decide to move in on Mohinder. To take his blood, cut his throat, take from him what he took from her. Revenge is a cold snake in the pit of her stomach, and by God, she wants it.

….

She dons a dark grey coat, her favorite kitten heels and glossy pink lipstick to go kill Mohinder. The murder of her father must seem like ancient history inside a Company still reeling from the death of its leader. She wonders if Bob's death has earned Mohinder a promotion.

What she finds is not what she expects. She expects to casually open the doors to his lab, to say hi, announce that she's there to kill him for killing her father all those years ago, then quietly blow his brains out and wait for the security detachment to find her, capture, and hopefully come up with a way to dispose of her.

What she finds instead is that Sylar has gotten there before her.

When she opens the big metal door, he swivels around in his seat, and his manner suggests that she is simply late for tea.

Her finger twitches over the trigger as her eyes sweep the vicinity for her target.

_I told you I'd find you someday._

_Where is he?_

He continues as if he hasn't heard her.

_I spent a lot of time looking for you. You move enough to make _me _look sedentary!_

_Where is he?_

Finally, he decides to acknowledge her question.

_Suresh?_

_Yes._

_Oh. He's over there._

He points up.

As she moves to look in the direction he indicates, a spot of blood catches her on the forehead. A curious finger catches it and examines it closely. Sniffs it.

Claire looks up to see Mohinder is pinned telekinetically to the ceiling. She doesn't like it.

_Let him down._

_Only if you say please._

She doesn't hesitate.

As soon as she has Mohinder, she injects him with her blood. She doesn't like that Sylar's tortured him. Not at all.

And as soon as he is completely healed, as soon as he is looking at her as if she's his savior, she kisses his temple with the muzzle of her gun, giving him an eternal caress.

….

He claps for her.

_Brava. I don't think I could have done it better myself._

Claire turns hopeful eyes to him. She wants him to end this for her so badly. So badly. It's all empty, and she has the feeling that the only thing capable of filling that emptiness would be death. In the end, she's jealous of Mohinder, jealous of the gift she gave her greatest enemy.

Sylar steps closer to her, invading her personal space. Leans in, so she can smell his warm breath.

_I think… I'd like to try something different with you._

And he wraps his arms around her shoulders, securing her against him.

What she sees in his black eyes that day frightens her. It also fills her with dread.

* * *

_A/N: This story has a companion, Broken, which tells this story from Sylar's pov, as well as a sequel, And All the Stars Fell Down, which picks up where this story leaves off. _


End file.
